A Failure at Love
by liragreen
Summary: Bella is good at a lot of things. Love just isn't one of those.


. . . . .

Yet another date had ended in disaster.

When I got home, the house was quiet and Jacob's bedroom light was off. But he'd left the porch and living room lights on for me. I smiled through my tears, grateful for his thoughtfulness. I staggered in the front door and kicked off my heels. I blindly dropped my purse on the floor and unzipped the side of my top a few inches so I could breathe.

I padded to the fridge and pulled Jacob's bottle of vodka out of the freezer. He didn't drink much, but he had a shot now and then. I was usually a teetotaler, but some nights called for something strong. Nights like tonight.

I yanked the cap off of the bottle and took a swig of the clear liquid.

It burned down my esophagus, and I choked and sputtered. _Gross_. I took another swig to punish myself and slunk back to the couch, flipping the light switch off. I needed darkness for proper wallowing in self-pity.

I hiked up my pencil skirt a few inches to avoid splitting the seam, and I threw myself down on the soft cushions with a moan. Three more swills of the vodka and I was beginning to regret even starting. My vision softened, and my head felt buzzy. I was not going to regard this as a wise decision in the morning.

I felt tears start to pour down my face, and I snuffled into my open hand. What the hell was wrong with me that every relationship I started ended with such a pathetic whimper? Wasn't I cute? Funny? Smart? I could cook. I was actually nice—how many girls could say that? A sob escaped my lips and that made me cry harder. I was pathetic.

"Bells?"

Jake stumbled out of the dim hallway, rubbing his eyes. He looked like a sleepy child in his flannel pajama pants. Well, he would have, except for the rippling muscles under his tight brown skin. Those were far, far from childlike. I hiccupped and blushed. _Way to put on the liquor goggles, Bella._

"What's wrong, Honey?"

He sunk down onto the couch next to my feet. He ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair and leaned toward me.

"Are you ok?"

"No… I—" my voice cracked and I threw my head back on the pillow behind me. "I'm a freaking failure at life!"

He patted my shin as I wept, then pulled my feet out from under me and started to rub them softly.

"You are not a failure at life, Bells. You are smart and successful and beautiful. You've just had a rough night. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"I haven't had a rough night." I pulled my feet away, but then immediately put them back on his lap. I regretted wearing five-inch heels. Especially to be dumped in. "I've had a rough life. A goddamn rough love life. I suck at love."

He chuckled at my juvenile outburst, and I sat up a little straighter so I could take another gulp of vodka.

"Woah, woah there, kid!" He laughed and lunged for the bottle. "That's not for little girls."

"I am not a little girl. I'm 23." I pouted and then laughed in spite of myself. "Ok, maybe I get a little bratty when I'm drinking."

"Ok, we'll go with 'maybe' then, if it makes you feel better." He grinned and took a drink from the pilfered bottle before wiping his mouth. "That does have a kick, doesn't it?"

I giggled and reached for the bottle again. It was making me feel a little better now; I was willing to pretend that I wouldn't have to call in sick tomorrow if I drank any more.

He raised an eyebrow at me and then held the bottle out to me. Before he released it, he asked, "Was it a really, really bad date?"

"The worst." I nodded emphatically and pulled the cold glass from his grip. I took three long gulps and gagged unintentionally.

"He dumped me before dessert. And damn it, I really wanted the affogato."

I started crying again, but Jake's booming laugh stopped me. I realized how ridiculous my dessert lamentation sounded, and I started laughing, too.

Jake leaned over for the bottle, and I willingly handed it over. "Well, if you're drunk, I might as well join you."

He guzzled a couple of inches out of the bottle and set it on the coffee table with a thunk. His hands found my feet again, and I kicked in response to the cold.

"I'll rub, you talk."

"Oh, god. You do not want to hear this." I looked at him with one eye open, and he nodded in encouragement.

"Every gory detail."

I threw my head back on the pillow and scooted down the couch cushion so I was almost prone.

"First, he was late picking me up. He said it was traffic or something, but we both knew that was B.S. Then, he said he'd made reservations at La Trattoria, but he was in the mood for steak instead. I reminded him that I was a vegetarian—which I hate doing, because that's annoying, and I don't want to be that girl. And he already knew because the last time we went out, he'd sort of made fun of my order—but he said the steakhouse on 29th had some good pasta options."

I hiccuped and reached for the vodka bottle, but found my arm a few inches too short. I detachedly watched my hand flail in the air, the combination of what I'd already drunk and the coolness emanating from the just-out-of-reach bottle made my fingers feel strange. Jake handed me the bottle and waited until I'd gotten it to my mouth. I returned it to his hand and he drained another inch or two from it before putting it on the floor next to me.

"But their pastas all had meat baked into the sauces and the only other option was a baked potato, which wasn't really what I wanted. So I ordered a salad and looked like a total skinny girl on a diet."

Jake laughed. I was vaguely conscious of his hands rubbing my calves. I pointed and flexed my toes. "Heels are the worst. Why do I even bother? I could have shitty dates like this in sneakers, you know? At least I wouldn't be grumpy about having sore feet. Having sore feet and eating a salad for dinner... And I can tell he's annoyed that I got a salad, but there's not exactly a lot to choose from, right? So I'm doing my best to get along."

My hiccups came and went and returned again. I tried to drown them with vodka. The burning liquid seemed to help.

"So then he gets all worked up about something political; I can't even remember what—and I tell him I actually think whatever it is is a good thing, and then he tells me that we probably ought to cut dinner short. So he waves the waitress over, gives her his credit card and tells her he'll take the receipt up front. Then he gets up and leaves me at the damn table with my half-eaten salad. And everyone is looking at me. Then I have to get up and walk out alone. In those stupid heels. And I had to wait for an hour for an Uber because downtown was so busy."

My eyes welled up again, and Jacob leaned over me and pulled up the edge of my blouse to press against my cheek. I vaguely resisted, worried that I'd get mascara on it, but occurred to me that I didn't care, and I let him wipe away the tears. I also made a mental note to wear waterproof mascara from now on when I went on dates, seeing as how most of them pretty much ended like this one. With tears.

"Bells, that's terrible. What an ass. He should have at least waited until after dinner. Driven you home." His warm hand brushed against my cheek, and the vodka swirled through my veins. "You should have called me instead of an Uber. I would have picked you up. And treated you to affogato."

He grinned fuzzily in my blurred vision, hovering above me and mopping up my tears. He was so beautiful.

I was suddenly, painfully aware of the hot skin of his bare chest burning against my stomach. I shifted to escape the lightning bolts shooting through my body. And then I realized that when he leaned forward, my legs draped over his. Foggily, I sensed that my skirt had hiked up even farther on my thighs when I'd scooted down. Now, his thin pajama pants were all that were between my legs and his lap.

Jacob seemed to notice my distraction. He shifted again, but I couldn't tell if it was nervousness or to get closer.

"Bells."

His hands left my calves and snaked up my legs slowly. I felt buzzy and giddy, and my whole body heated up 20 degrees.

"Bells, you deserve so much better than that."

His voice was low and husky, and I stared at his half-lowered eyelids behind my own heavy lids.

I watched my hands lift up and run through his hair. I felt them entwine behind his head, and I leaned toward his face.

He pulled back slightly.

"Bells. You're drunk. And so am I. You deserve better than this, too."

I nodded, but I didn't agree. There was no one—nothing—better than Jake. I knew that. I always had. I didn't know if romance was in the cards for us, but our friendship had stood the test of time. It suddenly made me wonder if our love could, too.

I didn't let go of his hair. Instead, I pulled one leg from his lap and wrapped it around his waist.

He resisted slightly, but I knew his will was weak. Being drunk didn't help.

I lowered my hands over the back of his neck and down his shoulders. I felt him sigh, felt his muscles tighten and relax. Then he twisted toward me and shifted to place a hand on either side of my waist. Kneeling, he put a hand under my back and struggled with the zipper of my skirt.

I took a sharp breath, surprised by his boldness. He smiled at my reaction, the liquor slurring his speech slightly.

"It's going to tear. I won't have you mad at me in the morning for ripping your favorite skirt."

I lifted up awkwardly, and he pulled down the zipper and then dragged my skirt down my legs and off of my feet. I was glad I'd worn pretty panties even though I'd known my date with whatever his name was wasn't going to go like this, regardless of how well it went. Jake had seen me in very little before, but I was glad I wasn't wearing ugly floral Fruit of the Looms for this.

Jacob sat back on his feet, kneeling on the couch, sucked in a shaky breath and looked down at me in the dim light. "God, Bells."

I scooted down, wrapping my legs around his waist. I leaned up and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down on top of me.

"Kiss me, Jacob."

His lips tentatively moved toward mine, and I leaned up to meet him.

But instead his hand pressed against my shoulder, pushing me back gently against the couch cushions. I opened my eyes, and saw him staring down at me, his eyes black with lust and liquor.

"Bella, I can't. We're drunk. This isn't right."

"It's so right, Jake. It's always been right." I lifted up toward him again, but he moved off of me and away.

"Maybe so, but it's not right right now. I love you too much for this." He ran his hand through his hair again, took one last lingering look at my body laid out on the couch, shook his head seemingly to clear it, and started to back away. "We can talk about this when we're both sober. I can't—I just can't."

I opened my mouth to argue, but I knew it was no use. He turned and went back to his room, shutting the door behind him. I heard the lock engage, and I burrowed into the couch, sniffling into my tear-stained shirt.

I'd been dumped and turned down in the same night.

I was a freaking failure at love.

. . . . .


End file.
